41
Karin loved her trips to Florence to visit the swimwear factories, especially in summer. Back in the office, she liked to pretend that her monthly trips to Italy were a chore that needed to be suffered but, as she drove through the lush green Italian countryside, how could she complain? Her routine was hardly backbreaking; she would check into her favourite room at the Lungarno Suites with its Tiffany blue walls and sun-dusted window, from which she could see the Duomo and taste the flower-fragranced air. She would then take the forty-five-minute drive out to the two factories, where she could cast over her perfectionist eyes over the manufacturing. After lunch with the factory manager, she would talk to the pattern cutters and the House models would try on her early prototypes, to which Karin would make the minor, crucial adjustments. Back in the city at night, she had a coterie of friends she loved seeing. The Italians had such a love of life, of food and, crucially, of gossip. They always had hilarious anecdotes about the backstabbing world of fashion.
Karin was particularly excited about this visit, as she put her foot down on the autostrada heading out east of the city, her radio tuned into cheesy Euro-pop. Today, she was due to see samples of the Cruise collection, which were due to be shown at the Miami Swim Show trade fair later that month. Business was booming: after Cameron Diaz had been photographed in a black Karenza bikini on holiday in Hawaii, there had been another surge in orders from Fred Segal, Barneys and Neiman Marcus. But she couldn’t rest on her laurels; she had to keep the brand moving forward.
Karin pulled into the car park of an anonymous-looking building in a small town in the Florentine countryside. It was usually packed full of Fiats, but today there was an eerie quiet about the place.
She walked to the main entrance and it appeared locked.
What the hell is going on? she thought, pulling out her mobile phone.
A small, thin-faced man in a pair of navy coveralls emerged from a side door.
‘Where is everyone?’ she asked in perfect Italian.
‘Where eez everyone?’ the man repeated back to her in English and threw his hands in the air. ‘At home, mia cara, today it is, a, a … how you say stop work?’ he asked.
‘A strike!’ She grimaced. She knew the Italians liked nothing better than a good strike, especially in summer or when there was an important football match on, but in five years of visiting Florence she had never been caught up in one.
‘Where is Giovanni?’ she asked.
‘He not contact you?’ asked the man. ‘The strike is today and tomorrow. We see you Monday, perhaps?’
There was no point in arguing or demanding to see Giovanni, who’d probably headed to his villa on the coast. She got back in the car, but felt anxious, drumming her fingers on the wheel. Much as she loved the laid-back Italian attitude, she just couldn’t adjust. Karin always wanted to be doing something. She ran through her schedule. She wasn’t due in Capri until Saturday morning, so she could get an afternoon flight back to London but, what the hell, seeing as she was in Italy, she might as well enjoy its sunshine and its splendour. She knew that Adam’s yacht was sailing down from Portofino where her boyfriend was buttering up some Italian investors on a corporate jolly. She could easily drive down to one of the ports along the way and join him. Or she could fly down to Naples and check into the Capri Palace Hotel for a couple of days; their famous leg treatments at the hotel spa were legendary all over Europe for keeping cellulite at bay. She picked up her phone.
‘Adam. It’s me.’
‘Hi, honey. How’s Florence? Another fabulous collection on your hands?’
‘I’d only know that if I could see it,’ she sighed. ‘There’s only a bloody strike. The factory is closed until Monday.’
Adam started to laugh. ‘I can see the fumes coming out of your ears from here.’
‘Where are you, anyway?’ asked Karin, wedging the mobile under her chin as she rejoined the traffic on the autostrada.
‘Still in Portofino. Just had some lunch at the Splendido. I can’t wait to see you.’
Karin could almost see his sexy smile beaming down the receiver. ‘Well, that’s why I’m ringing,’ said Karin. ‘It seems a waste to fly back to London when you’re here in Italy.’
‘What are you suggesting, Kay?’ She wasn’t sure but he suddenly sounded distracted.
‘That I join you on The Pledge.’
There was a pause and Karin felt a stab of annoyance.
‘Honey, this is business. It’s a bunch of dull investors, we’ll be talking shop. You’ll hate it.’
‘Don’t talk to me like some bloody bimbo,’ she sighed, veering suddenly away from the hard shoulder. ‘The boat’s big enough that I can keep out of your way.’
‘Kay. I’m not joking. Stay in Florence, go shopping, charge it to me. And I’ll see you on Saturday as planned.’
‘Fine.’ She tossed the phone on the passenger seat and pressed her foot to the floor of the car so it shot off like a rocket back towards Florence. There was something about his tone which worried her. ‘Charge it to me,’ he’d said. Well if he didn’t want her in on The Pledge, it was going to cost him.
Adam snapped the phone shut and turned over to face Summer, who was reclining on the top deck of The Pledge in a gold bikini that left very little to the imagination.
‘Is everything okay?’ she asked. She knew better than to pry but, hearing his lies on the telephone, she knew he must have been talking to Karin.
‘Fine,’ he replied, reaching over to rub his hand on her flat brown tummy.
Behind her shades, she squeezed her eyes shut to push any thoughts of Karin from her mind. It was Summer and Adam’s first weekend away and she wanted it to be perfect – so far it had been. She had boarded The Pledge the night before at Porto Ercole. She and Adam had had supper at Il Pellicano, the de-luxe retreat hanging on the hillside just outside the port, laughing and kissing and enjoying the sunset like any other couple.
The next morning, the captain had sailed to Giglio, a small island off the coast, where he had dropped anchor in a quiet cove and they had dived naked into the cool water.
Now it was lunchtime. There was an ice box full of beer and white wine, cheese, olives, bread and cold langoustines the size of bananas. The walnut deck of The Pledge glinted in the sun, the water wrapped around it like jade shantung silk shot through with silver. The coast rose out of the sea, all granite cliffs, lapping caves and hillsides of scrub. Despite being the height of season, they were almost alone bobbing on the water – there was only the tiny white hull of one other yacht far away on the horizon.
Summer took a sip of Peroni, removed her bikini top and lay back on a towel in just a white thong, her sun-streaked honey-blonde hair that had been dyed back to its natural colour days earlier, fanning out around her head.
‘Mmm … Are you deliberately trying to tempt me away from lunch?’ asked Adam, crawling over on his hands and knees and rolling on top of Summer, taking one nipple between his lips.
‘Adam Gold!’ scolded Summer, widening her legs and then wrapping them around his body. ‘Luigi is just over there,’ she giggled.
‘I pay him firstly to be a good skipper and secondly to be discreet,’ smiled Adam lazily. ‘Besides, it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.’
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Adam knew he’d made a blunder. Summer sat up and swung her legs away from him, pulling the towel over her breasts. She felt so stupid; of course he did this all the time. She had allowed herself to believe that the trip to Italy was a real step forward for their relationship. It was one thing meeting for afternoon sex in discreet boutique hotels around London; it was another spending two days together on Adam’s yacht. She had taken it as a sign of growing commitment, even daring to hope he might end his relationship with Karin so that the two of them could be together properly. But ‘nothing he hasn’t seen before’? She accepted that Karin would probably have frolicked on the same deck she was sitting on now – but were there
others?
The sea was calm, just the gentle flutter of a breeze.
‘Are there others?’ she asked finally. Adam propped himself up on one elbow and fiddled with his sunglasses.
‘Summer, I thought we weren’t going to talk about things like this,’ he said, trying to touch her arm.
‘Is that what we said?’ she snapped, pulling her arm away.
He pulled a face and shrugged.
‘I guess what you’re telling me is that, if I ask you difficult questions, I’m likely to hear things I don’t want to hear?’ said Summer slowly. ‘I’m not stupid.’
‘No, you’re not,’ said Adam quietly.
There was a long pause as Summer stared up at the cliffs, watching the birds wheel round and round above them.
‘So how about you move out of your mother’s flat?’ said Adam.
Summer sat up with a start, her pert, sun-bronzed breasts jiggling.
‘What? What’s brought this on?’
‘Well, you can’t think it’s a good idea still to live downstairs from your mother.’
Summer frowned. ‘Adam, what are you saying?’
He brushed his hand down her thigh. ‘You don’t want to become her, do you?’
Summer drew herself up on her knees so she was towering above him. ‘I’m not sure I like the implication of this,’ she said. ‘Molly may have her faults, but she’s my mother, Adam.’
‘Summer, you’re smart and beautiful and good. You don’t name-drop endlessly. You don’t do drugs. You don’t want to spend my money …’ He smiled wryly. He had taken her shopping the weekend before in Prada. As a VVIP he had half the shop closed off so they could shop in complete privacy. But if the store had been anticipating a big spender like Karin Cavendish who would spend £50,000 on his credit card without even blinking, they were disappointed by Adam Gold’s new girlfriend. Summer had only been interested in a small leather tote.
‘What are you saying about my mother?’ repeated Summer. But she knew what Adam was saying. Molly was a party girl, a gold-digger, a single-minded bitch when the mood took her. And he was right, she didn’t want to end up like her mother; not far off forty-five, unmarried, flogging gifts on eBay.
‘Honey, I’m not saying anything,’ replied Adam. ‘She’s with Marcus. So she’s my friend.’
‘Exactly. And she likes Marcus very much,’ Summer added, not terribly convincingly. ‘So please, whatever you’re trying to suggest, don’t.’
Adam pulled himself to his feet, facing her. ‘Listen, there’s a company flat we’re having renovated. It’s in one of the best squares in Notting Hill, a fantastic lateral conversation with solid oak floors and …’
Summer felt herself switch off. She enjoyed listening to Adam, learning from him, talking about books and movies and faraway places. But when it came to business she could feel herself cloud over.
‘Well, what do you think?’ asked Adam.
‘Eh? Of what?’ replied Summer.
‘Of living there. It won’t be for six weeks or so. But I think you need some independence and it’d be nice if we could have a little more privacy, wouldn’t it?’ he added, slipping his hand inside her bikini bottoms.
‘Really? You’re kidding?’
Adam shook his head. ‘Now don’t get too excited. I’ll get a proper contract drawn up, naming you as my tenant.’
Summer could feel her pulse race with excitement. She would love to get out from under her mother’s shadow and it would be heaven to have Adam coming around for long Sunday breakfasts, but still … There was a slight taste of something, well, very Molly about what he was saying. For all of Adam’s philanthropic comments – did he really think she needed saving from her mother? – the setup had the distinct whiff of mistress. She didn’t even know if it was possible to be elevated to mistress status when Adam wasn’t even married. But when she looked into his dark brown eyes, all her misgivings melted away and she felt a stir in her groin. When she was with Adam she felt desired, protected. She also felt something she hadn’t felt in a long, long time. She felt in love.
‘Are you at least going to think about it?’ asked Adam, putting his hands around her waist.
‘I don’t want to live there for free. I won’t like how that feels.’
Adam nodded. ‘I’ll get a lease drawn up and we can fix a rent. Although I think you can rest assured it’ll be very reasonable.’
He slipped the palms of his hands under the sides of her bikini bottoms and began to peel them down.
‘And to answer your question,’ his words became muffled as his mouth journeyed south. ‘No, there aren’t any others.’
42
Karin was sure she was being followed. At first she thought it was just paranoia brought on by stress and overwork, but it was happening too frequently to be just her imagination. At first it was nothing more than an eerie sense of being watched, the feeling of unseen eyes on her back or an involuntary shiver, even though it was seventy-five degrees outside. She had never been one to get easily spooked, but at the same time she had always possessed a sharp sense of knowing when something was wrong and it was making her jumpy. It made her close the curtains as soon as it went dark. It made her request the use of Adam’s driver more frequently, although she did not tell him her suspicions – he would have laughed, especially as she often mocked his Manhattan security consciousness with his ex-SAS driver and his friends who had bodyguards and submarines that circled their yachts when they were on holiday.
She first saw him late on a hot, sunny afternoon in July. An apricot sun was sitting low in the hazy, pale blue sky and Karin had finished work early to enjoy the evening. Adam was in New York and she wanted some downtime to relax, perhaps sort out some paperwork. Swim Show Miami, the industry’s most important trade fair, was only two weeks away and she needed to make sure they were prepared. Her house was just round the corner from a fabulous Italian deli and she strolled down there to get some beef tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella for an early supper on the roof terrace. Coming back, she cut through the South Kensington back-streets of tall white townhouses and hidden parks feeling relaxed and happy. Then she saw him. He was sitting on a wall at the end of her street reading a music magazine. His hair was lank and brown, pushed back over his ears, and his long face had a sullen expression. At first she thought he was just another teenager, but the way he had looked so directly, so intensely at her had made her feel deeply unsettled. As she passed, he began to follow her, the clop of his heavy trainers clearly audible behind her. She climbed up the stone steps of her house without looking back and slammed the door shut. Peering through the peephole she could see his distorted image standing outside and she quickly double-bolted the front door. Don’t be so silly, Karin, she scolded herself. He’s only a kid. She even managed a small laugh as she climbed the stairs to run a warm, oily bath. He’s only a silly little kid. What harm could he do?
43
The only problem with living out in Buckinghamshire was the journey home, thought Molly, pressing her foot down on the accelerator. Marcus had given her his Maserati two weeks ago after he had bought a brand-new silver Jaguar XS. She loved the way it ate up the road. Even though she had not officially moved into The Standlings, she was fast beginning to think of ‘the manor’ as home. Her interior decorations were almost complete, most importantly the conversion of a bedroom into a climate-controlled ‘his and hers’ dressing room into which Molly had moved all of her extensive wardrobe. She was also delighted with the new Smallbone kitchen with its racks of shiny Global knives she would never touch and the brand-new panelled library designed to look 300 years old. The pièce de résistance, however, was the ten-man indoor hot tub, modelled on the grotto at the Playboy mansion. Molly had been itching to have one of those since she had been to a party there in the 1980s – now that was a great night out, she smiled. Marcus, however, had almost had a meltdown at the expenditure Molly was racking up, but even he had to admit the place looked amazing.
&n
bsp; If she could have picked up The Standlings and dropped it in the middle of Kensington, it would have been perfect, but it wasn’t. It was fifty miles outside of sodding London, which felt ten times longer after the two cocktails and the line of coke she had taken a couple of hours ago when she met some friends in Notting Hill for lunch.
She pushed her foot down even harder, wanting to get home for 4.30. She had discovered a wonderful woman in the village, a former beauty therapist at Dorchester spa who had downshifted to Buckinghamshire and came round to Molly’s once a week to do a very respectable manicure and pedicure. As she hit sixty mph on a B-road, her mobile rang and she reached across the passenger seat to grab it. She hadn’t seen the slight bend in the road, and the car jerked as it mounted a roadside kerb. Molly dropped the mobile phone and tightened her grip on the steering wheel as she tried to control the vehicle. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ she muttered as the front left wheel bumped back on the tarmac. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ she yelled, banging her palm against the dashboard as the sound of a police siren wailed behind her.
She’d been whisked through the court process. Molly had actually considered herself lucky to get away with a £2000 fine and a twelve-month ban on her licence after she had seen the three po-faced country bumpkins on the magistrates’ bench. No amount of Chanel or pearls was going to sway those inbreds, she thought. She was entirely correct. Molly was convicted of drink-driving when the bench completely rejected her mitigating plea that she had needed to drink vodka cranberry to sort out a nasty bout of cystitis. Still, at least she hadn’t received a sentence of community service – imagine! Scraping chewing gum off railway bridges with her nails? – and hopefully her driving ban would mean that Marcus would finally sort them out with a Midas Corporation driver.
Gold Diggers Page 29
